Sung by Sinatra
by CeliaEquus
Summary: Steve Rogers has his very own secret admirer. Unfortunately, by the time he works out who it is, it's too late... Warning: not a happy ending. Disclaimer: I don't own the Avengers, or any other Marvel thingummies, nor am I making money from this. Almost Capsicoul.


Warning: character death mentioned, and you probably shouldn't listen to 'Once Upon a Time' (by Strouse) while reading the fic. Or before reading it. And especially not after.

"Sung by Sinatra"

Steve Rogers was an artist who moonlighted at Captain America. But sometimes he felt like Captain America was the one moonlighting as Steve Rogers, and that Steve Rogers was an alter-ego, not the other way around.

Captain America had hundreds – possibly thousands – of fans. Maybe even more.

Steve Rogers didn't.

But he did have a secret admirer. And he was thought he knew who it was.

* * *

Present number one was a gramophone. An honest-to-goodness record player, with handle and stylus, inside an unassuming box. Steve had found a few vinyls since he woke up in the twenty-first century, but the player Stark had bought just didn't sound right. Not to mention the fact that it wasn't the simple kind of gramophone from Steve's era. Even Howard Stark's player hadn't been as complicated as the ones with the buttons, hooked up to amplifiers which filled the room with music. That wasn't what Steve wanted at all.

He'd complained about this in front of his friends. Since Tony was there, he had at least apologised, but emphasised that these were his views, and sorry, but he would rather just listen to CDs. It was considerate of Tony to go to the trouble of buying (or making) a record player for Steve, after all. It's just that nothing compared…

Anyway. One day he returned to his room to find a large box outside his door. JARVIS reassured him that it was safe. Shrugging, Steve lugged it into his room easily, shield slung over his back. Once it was sitting on his desk, he retreated to the bathroom for a shower, all the while thinking about his gift.

Back in his bedroom, Steve opened the cardboard box carefully, keeping it as intact as his super-strength would allow. When he pulled out the box, he was once again impressed by the weight, and set it down carefully. He opened the note taped to the box.

'_I hope you enjoy listening to your records on something more suited to your tastes, Steve._'

"JARVIS?" Steve said, hands remaining steady as he lifted the lid back.

"Yes, Captain Rogers?"

He stared at the turntable, the arm with the pointed stylus, and the handle clipped to the inside of the lid. With still-steady hands, he pulled out the handle carefully, pushed it into the hole he now noticed at the side, and took a step back.

"Who sent this?" he asked.

"The package was delivered by the postal service, as you will observe from the outer packaging." Steve nodded. "Without knowing the account number – presuming the object was purchased electronically, sir – I cannot trace the sender. It is my belief, however, that half of the fun of having a secret admirer is personally uncovering their identity through deductions."

Steve looked up at the ceiling; that's where he preferred to look when talking to Tony's AI. "You're saying I have a secret admirer?"

"I would have thought that clear, sir. Am I mistaken?"

"No, no," Steve murmured, looking from the note to the gramophone. "I think you could be right. I just don't know who would do this."

He tested one of his LPs, 'Songs by Sinatra', which he'd bought at a record store Agent Coulson had told him about while trying to integrate him into this century. He chose track six, his favourite: 'All The Things You Are'.

It was just right.

He smiled.

* * *

Present two was more personal, or at least it felt like that. Heck, it felt more intimate, simply because it was a set of bed-sheets.

Not many people knew about Steve's Irish heritage. He'd wanted to go to Ireland ever since he was a kid; with no family left, he no longer had any ties to the country, and wasn't interested in visiting, in case it brought back painful memories.

That didn't take away from the fact that everyone associated him solely with America. Captain America; red, white and blue uniform; 'the star-spangled man with a plan'. Not one mention of his ancestry. He vented his spleen about this one day at breakfast, in front of his team-mates. He couldn't remember how the topic came up, but it did, and he gave voice to his annoyance.

A few days later, another parcel arrived. JARVIS once again reassured him that there was nothing harmful in the package, so Steve tore off the string and gently unwrapped the brown paper. Inside was bed linen in the colours and pattern of the Irish flag. Two complete sets, the right size for his bed, right number of pillows. Instead of all red-white-and-blue, he could now have green-white-and-orange.

"I don't know how Mr. Stark will take the change in colour scheme," JARVIS remarked dryly. Steve chuckled.

"Mr. Stark can go jump in the Hudson," Steve said, stroking the soft fabric. "My dreams have become tri-coloured thanks to his Stars and Stripes decorations. I'd like a change. You know… he wasn't there that day. When I told the others about my frustrations, Tony was still in his workshop. So he can't be my admirer, unless one of the others told him."

"If that is so, sir, such a conversation has not taken place where I can see it or hear it, and Mr. Stark's account has not included transactions of this nature."

"Thank you," Steve said. "That's one name I can cross off my list."

* * *

Present number three was spectacular, and the last thing Steve would have expected. He tried to be careful when talking about his favourite things now, and always took note of who was around. On this occasion, he didn't even think.

"You like art, right?" Clint asked. Steve nodded. "Okay. Four across—"

"Oh," Steve said. "The crossword? I never actually went to art school, so… I don't know how helpful I'll be."

"Eight letters," Clint said, pushing on. "Third letter 'A', seventh letter 'T'. Component of pencils used for sketching."

Steve didn't even have to think. "Graphite."

"Thanks," he said, writing it in. Steve smiled, pleased with himself.

"There were these great drawing pencils I got overseas," he said. "I can't remember what they were called – the brand was Swedish, I think, but I bought them in France. There was this little shop…" He laughed softly. "I did my best work with those pencils. Lost it all now."

Two weeks later he'd forgotten all about the conversation, when a delivery was made to the tower. Steve signed for the package, surprised to notice that it was for him, and thanked the delivery man. Taking the parcel to his room, Steve opened it, hoping it was another present from his secret admirer. The last note had referred to varying the colouring scheme. This one was different again.

'_I believe this is the brand you were trying to remember_,' the note said. '_If not, I hope these will suffice until I can find what you want_.'

The picture was different, and so was the logo. But the name seemed familiar. And the moment he began to sketch he could feel the difference. Soon he was drawing each of his team-mates in their battle positions, all the while thinking back to that day.

Thor wasn't there.

So it had to be… well, if it wasn't Natasha, there was a two-in-three chance that his secret admirer was male (Clint or Bruce). Was Steve okay with a man liking (being in love with) him?

Stroking the wooden box just a bit too big for the cardboard container of pencils, Steve realised that it didn't matter.

Whatever it was, it was slowly becoming requited.

* * *

Present number four hit him right in the gut. One day, Steve had visited Peggy, whose memories were patchy in places. He kissed her on both cheeks, unable to feel the same way about her since the third present his secret admirer had sent. If it wasn't for someone else staking a claim on his heart, he would have still loved Peggy just as fiercely as before, no matter her age or deteriorating memory.

Back at the tower – which was now home – Steve locked himself in his room until it was time for dinner. They weren't all there – Natasha was at SHIELD and Thor was still in Asgard – but Bruce had dragged Tony upstairs and Clint had only returned from a mission the day before. Sitwell was joining them that night, because whenever Bruce made pizza he preferred to cut it into equal pieces. They could have done it with just four or five – seven was a no-no, so they usually included Pepper or Rhodey to bring it to eight – but Bruce preferred to divide pizzas into six, and neither were available.

"You were right," Sitwell said, peering over his glasses at Bruce as the scientist triple-checked his measurements. "He is anal about this." Bruce flipped him off.

"He makes the pizza extra hot so it won't be cold by the time we get to it," Steve said. Sitwell snorted.

"How's your day been, Captain?" he asked. Steve's spirits took a dive.

"Saw an old friend," he said. "It just… it reminded me of all I lost, even before the plane crash. Another important person from my past. She was the second woman ever to mean anything to me, and the first – my mom – had so little that the only pictures we ever had were ones that I drew. We couldn't afford a camera, and we couldn't afford to get any studio photographs taken. I don't have any pictures of her. Just my memories." He perked up slightly. "I did draw one, for my wallet. Used those new pencils."

There was no particular reaction from anyone; but then the people around him were used to being inscrutable, so he shouldn't have expected anything less. Sitwell did ask to see the drawing, so Steve obliged. They all looked at it, asked questions, and talked about their families during dinner.

That was when Steve realised these people were his new family. Sitwell, not so much, but he was definitely a close friend. Like a next-door neighbour.

Nearly a month passed before the next communication from his secret admirer. Steve thought that it was unfair; he'd just started to develop feelings for this mystery person, and suddenly they decided that they didn't want him anymore.

The fourth present dispelled this worry, and he berated himself for even thinking such a thing.

It was a framed photograph of his mother in her work uniform, probably taken for employment records. He'd never thought of searching for that. It was a close-up, probably digitally enhanced, and not artificially coloured. He'd seen some artificial colouring (and vocalised his opinions of it on more than one occasion). The frame was weighty, and must have been made of actual silver. He put it on his dresser and just stared at it for a good fifteen minutes, according to JARVIS.

"It suits the furniture well, sir," the AI commented.

"It really does," Steve said. "When did I talk about this?" JARVIS told him. "That's right. Could you show me footage from that night?"

Checking his list, Steve crossed out Natasha's name. That left Clint and Bruce as the only possibilities.

'_This took some finding, and I selected a neutral frame. Feel free to choose something more to your tastes. I won't be offended._'

Steve didn't know how he could possibly broach the subject with either Bruce or Clint, especially since any of the other presents could have been a fluke, or his admirer was asking the others for information. At this rate, he would have to wait for the sender to make him- or her-self known.

It was going to be sooner than he had ever guessed, and under the most terrible of circumstances.

* * *

Present number six was delivered not long before the Avengers had to assemble. Steve noticed it propped against the wall outside his door when he returned to the tower basically to run in, suit up, then run out again. He was pumped from his jog around the block, and tossed the present onto his bed. At least it was something nice to look forward to opening when he got home.

Tragedy struck. They lost one of their own in battle. Agent Coulson was barely half an hour in medical when he lost the battle with his extensive injuries, leaving them shattered, and disinclined to debrief. It was Sitwell in the end who reminded them that once it was over with, they could mourn their fallen friend as he deserved, and he would have wanted them to get this done.

Back in his room nearly twenty-four hours after he'd last been in there, Steve collapsed onto his bed, before finally noticing the present from his admirer. Clint and Bruce were still alive – all of his team-mates were, thank the Lord – but he didn't feel like physical comfort. He'd pushed away any attempts at embraces, knowing that he was hurting at least one person but unable to bear touch at that moment. The gift would be enough.

It should have been.

Packaging removed, Steve saw that it was another Frank Sinatra record, maybe from the same place Coulson – damn it, he should have called him Phil, like the man had asked – Phil had told him about. 'September of My Years'. There was a note on the front, printed so carefully that it almost looked typed, just like the others.

'_Track 5, side 2. Will you work it out now? If you do, all I ask is a kiss, unless the idea repulses you._'

Hands honestly shaking now – though that could've partly been because Phil's death was so fresh – he opened his record player and set the vinyl to play track five on side two, just as the note said. Old Blue Eyes began to sing.

'_Once upon a time a girl with moonlight in her eyes_

_Put her hand in mind and said she loved me so…_'

And, all at once, Steve knew the identity of his secret admirer.

'_But that was once upon a time very long ago._'

Less than two months after the Avengers formed, Steve had been in a shopping centre looking for art supplies even close to the quality of the ones he now had. He had just walked into a shop, when he caught the end of a beautiful, sad song. There was instrumental, then one last line of lyrics which he missed thanks to an announcement over the mall's loudspeaker. He told one person, lamenting the fact that he'd never heard this song, and had no idea what the title was. That person had asked the name of the shop, and neither of them ever mentioned it again. Steve occasionally wondered about the song; sometimes it haunted his dreams.

'_Once upon a hill we sat beneath a willow tree_

_Counting all the stars and waiting for the dawn…_'

But he never expected even to hear it again, let alone find out what it was. According to the LP cover, the song was 'Once Upon a Time'.

'_But that was once upon a time, now the tree is gone._'

"How does the tune go?" he'd been asked.

Steve tried to recreate it, and told the person the few words he thought he'd heard. It must have been enough.

'_How the breeze ruffled through her hair_

_How we always laughed as though tomorrow wasn't there_

_We were young and didn't have a care_

_Where did it go?_'

Steve had forgotten the most important person. The one person who had been there every time, aside from Bruce and Clint. For goodness' sake, Bruce still loved Betty, and Clint and Natasha were in some kind of relationship.

How had he never remembered that Phil Coulson was there, too?

Sinking his head into his hands, Steve thought back over every time he'd seen Phil after he had received a present. He never noticed then, but the agent would be tense for a long time, shoulders only slumping after at least half an hour, if not longer, and glancing at Steve.

But he'd always admired Steve, just platonically, he thought. As his childhood hero. Phil was just a fan; enthusiastic for a man of his age, but friendly and caring. He brought Steve almost single-handedly into the twenty-first century… told him where to find records… had already displayed semi-stalkerish behaviour before, so this actually made sense…

'_Once upon a time the world was sweeter than we knew_

_Everything was ours, how happy we were then…_'

Steve had signed his cards, yet Phil had continued to make him feel welcome, and never asked for anything else. Not until this last note. Just one request.

'_But somehow once upon a time never comes again._'

Phil was always there. It wasn't as creepy or weird as Steve thought it was at first. Now that he thought about it, Phil was always there to answer questions in the clearest way possible, intercede when Tony started to needle Steve, and… God, he never asked anything of Steve! At all! He checked with Steve once to make sure the suit was to his satisfaction, and assured Steve that he only had a small role in the design, passing off credit onto others.

Keeping behind the scenes, never making his intentions plain. Why did it all seem so obvious now? Why couldn't he have worked it out months ago?

Why now? Why, why, why?

"No!" he hissed, falling to his knees on the floor. That was Phil's last word. When he had been wounded one last time, before Thor had managed to pull his attacker away, he had looked over towards them. At the time, Steve wasn't sure whether Phil was looking at him, or at Natasha, or the creatures they were fighting. But he'd said one last thing, audible enough over the comms.

"_No_," he'd whispered. It was filled with pain, disbelief, desperation. At the time, it could have been attributed to his condition; pain from his injuries, disbelief that he'd been struck down, desperation to seek medical assistance, even though it was futile from the beginning.

No. He had given Steve the last key to his secret admirer's identity, knew he was dying, and was devastated that he'd never know how Steve would feel about him.

'_Once upon a time never comes again_.'

Kneeling by his bed, Steve was equally torn. Steve had lost Peggy, thinking that he was about to gain something more lasting. Now he had lost that as well. Had lost _him_.

Steve couldn't stop losing his chances.

God, he hadn't been in love with Phil, but he was damn well falling for his gift-giver. This song—

Not wanting to hear the next number, Steve leapt to the record player in time to lift the stylus. He stared at the LP as it slowed to a standstill, mind and heart in turmoil. The moment the vinyl stopped, Steve knew he would never recover from this.

* * *

In the morgue – the most horrific word in the English dictionary – Steve recalled how he'd walked into the common area to find his team-mates gathered there, and asked point-blank if one of them had been his secret admirer. At their negative answer, he could hardly keep it together. He knew they would say 'no'; but a 'yes' would have been nice. He would have liked to have been proven wrong about his admirer's identity.

Standing beside Phil's bloodless, lifeless body, Steve held the last, crumpled note in his hand.

"All you wanted was a kiss," he whispered. "All I wanted was… forever."

He swallowed hard, then bent over and kissed the cold forehead. Tears fell from his cheeks and hit the face below.

It almost looked like Phil was crying.

And Steve broke down.

* * *

**I'm a horrible person! I'm sorry! I'm so sorry!**

***Deposits fic and runs away, also in tears***


End file.
